Chaudière Falls: A Novel of Dramatized History

By David Mulholland

On March 7, 1800, Philemon Wright, a farmer from Woburn, Massachusetts, arrives on the north shore of the Ottawa River in Hull Township. On September 1, 1860, on the south side of the river, Queen Victoria’s son, Prince Albert Edward, lays the cornerstone for Canada’s Parliament Buildings on Barrack Hill in Ottawa.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772571141

David Mulholland

David Mulholland was born in Kingston, Ontario and raised in the Ottawa Valley town of Arnprior. He moved to Ottawa in 1970.Mulholland began his writing career as an advertising copywriter in private radio. He went on to work as a researcher, story editor, and occasional interviewer for CBC Public Affairs television; a general-assignment reporter and music reviewer for the Ottawa Citizen; a syndicated country-music columnist; a part-time stand up comedian with Yuk Yuk's; and a speech writer for a number of departments in the federal government.During those years, Mulholland wrote fiction when time permitted. In the spring of 2001, he began devoting full-time to writing a novel. The result is McNab, published in October 2006. Duel, his second novel of dramatized history, was published in October 2009. Chaudiere Falls, published in November 2016, is his third. In the Shadow of the Assassin, his fourth. He is currently working on a book of short stories based upon characters in the Ottawa Valley.

Book preview

PART ONE

1800 – 1826

1

Hull Township, North Shore, Ottawa River

Friday, March 7, 1800

He’s proud of his new slingshot. He’s pretty sure it’s just like the one David used to slay Goliath in the Bible story his mother gave him to read. They were almost ready to leave Woburn when he was attaching the leather pouch and he asked his father if the place they were going to would have stones for slinging. His father laughed and said, yes, there’d be plenty of stones.

What a dumb question!

Plenty of stones?

There’s nothing but stones!

And rocks! And trees! The river! And the falls!

The burly men in the plaid shirts and leather boots they met on their way here, the men whose words he couldn’t understand; Mr. Wright says they trap animals for their fur, and he says they told him if they went far enough they’d come to the Chaudière; that’s what they call the falls on the Ottawa River. Mr. Wright says it’s the French word for boiler. The water tumbles over the rocks just like any other falls, but when it gets to the bottom it churns and churns like it’s boiling.

A gull screeching. He’s standing at the shoreline, gazing out over the water. He wants to walk along the rocky shore, get closer to the falls, but he isn’t sure … Oh! Look! The gull is zigzagging over the water. He picks up a small stone, loads the slingshot, swings it round and round and lets the stone fly. Missed! Darn. Oh! Look at that! The gull is holding its body in the wind; it looks kinda like a white kite. It’s lighting on a rock, but on the opposite shore. Too far away now. The cliff over there … it’s huge! It looks solid.

Why have they come to this place? Some important man—his father says a governor—he said they could have the land if they were loyal to England. His father and the other men took an oath. Free. The land is free. And there’s plenty of it. His father says Mr. Wright says the land will be good for farming. He could tell because of the trees. All those trees mean the earth will be good for growing crops. They’ll have to chop down a lot of trees, clear the land, before they can plant seeds.

That’s what his father and the other men are doing, chopping down trees to make shanties. His mother and the other ladies are unpacking. Tonight though, like on the way here, some of them will sleep in the covered sleighs, others will wrap themselves in blankets on the frosty ground around the fire. They’d better not lie under those icicles! They look fearsome, hanging from the bare branches like that. The trees? His father says they’re white pine. He’s not worried, he’ll sleep beside his parents in the sleigh. Older children are helping, some are in the forest, laughing and darting from tree to tree.

A splash! He whirls around to face the river. Must have been a big fish. The fishing will be good. He hopes Mr. Wright is right and the land will be good too. He didn’t want to leave Woburn. He liked the short trip to Boston, a big city. But his father said they were going. Nathan Moore, his best friend, has come with his parents. Five families, and some single men. Mr. Wright says he needs them to help. Thirty-three single men, his father says. They’ll be good workers, he says, but he knows some of them drink too much. Oh well. What’s that? Sounded like a gunshot. Must be someone in the woods. He’ll go and see if—

Jedediah! It’s his father, waving an arm for him to come to him. He stuffs the slingshot into a hip pocket and runs toward his father. Help your mother, son. We need t’ be set before the sun. Where’s his mother? There she is, standing at the back of the sleigh, her arms filled with pots and pans. He goes and takes them from her. She says, put them beside where the men are placing rocks in a circle, where they’re building a fire ring to cook some food. He turns to go back for more. It’s hard to see, the sun is in his eyes. The sun sets in the west. His father told him that. His mother has disappeared under the sleigh’s cover. He asked his father if they’re going to stay here forever. He said he thinks so, if the land is good.

On the other side of the river, that’s the south side, it looks like it’s all rocks; some trees, but mostly rocks. Can’t build anything there. Maybe he and Nathan can go across in the canoe, go exploring. Think of it as an adventure. That’s what his father said, when he kicked at a small stone, when he told him they were going. Think of it as an adventure. He starts back down the embankment; a few children follow him.

Jedediah Jansen! It’s his mother. Come here! She’s standing at the back of the sleigh again, this time holding a huge, iron cooking pot.

As he runs toward her, Harvey Parker and Ephraim Chamberlin enter the clearing from among the trees, their rifles slung over their shoulders. They’re grasping a deer, one by its front legs, the other by its hind legs. With each step, the young buck’s nose bounces on the ground, leaving a spotted trail of dark blood in patches of snow.

Father! Jedediah cries. Look! The others, intent upon their labour, hadn’t noticed the men. Now everyone stops. Two men who have come with them as labourers move toward the hunters to help lift the carcass. They lug it down to the river and place it on a flat rock. The knives come out, the butchering begins. Jedediah stands beside them and watches.

Jedediah! It’s his mother. He trudges back up from the shore.

Abigail Wright is removing bedding from their sleigh when she feels a tightness in her chest. She begins to pant, quietly. The quilts drop to the ground. It’s wilderness. Nothing but trees and rocks and river. She knew that’s what it would be. Didn’t she? She stands steady, grasps the back of the sleigh, looks around at the caravan, as if taking inventory: thirty-one men, five women, twenty-one children, seven sleighs, fourteen horses, and eight oxen. They arrived on the river’s north shore a few hours ago. They travelled over the old stage road from Woburn, then along the shore of Lake Memphremagog, to Montréal. They rested a few days, stocked up with provisions, and began the journey to their new home. They plodded through deep snow and over treacherous ice. Men had to walk ahead with axes, sound every rod for thickness. Thank the Almighty for the sauvage. Without him to guide them … As suddenly as it came on, the tightness in her chest lets go. She inhales a deep breath of frosty air. No one has noticed, the others are busy scurrying about, preparing for nightfall. The wind diminishes with the slow decline of the sun. She lifts her broad shoulders, bends down, and picks up the quilts.

Philemon Wright and John Allen are squatted down on boards facing one another under the canopy of Wright’s sleigh. Wright puts down his cup of water, allows a sigh to escape his moist lips, and pushes his mane of flaxen hair back over his high forehead. He picks up a foolscap and glances around until he finds the pencil. The foolscap has a long list on it. Allen is sorting tools, noting their condition. Wright checks off each item: the handle of a hammer has snapped in the middle; the same for the handle of an auger. Near the back of the sleigh there are two mill irons, two scythes, five draw knives, two hoes, a grinding stone, a corn seeder, his wife’s spinning wheel, and an open leather trunk from which she has removed their bedding. Wright asks about the ploughs, and Allen tells him they’re still in Harvey Parker’s extra sleigh. Allen counts a few small utensils, Wright notes them on his foolscap. The rhythmic thud outside the sleigh tells them where the axes are.

Is it what you expected? Allen asks.

Yes, Wright says. Is it what you expected?

I’m wondering about the Indians. I’d knew there’d be Indians; I hope they’re not going to cause trouble. Shortly after their arrival, they saw a few Indians observing them from a distance.

I have papers to show—

I don’t think Indians put much stock in words on a piece of paper.

You worry too much, John. We have a lot of work ahead of us.

They rise and join the others who have gathered around the fire. About to sit down beside his wife, Wright hesitates and allows his eyes to scan their new home. The air is frosty and still. Swirls of snow curl against grey boulders sparkling with patches of frozen sleet. Icicles cling precariously to the branches of black trees, water dripping slowly from their tips like rapiers dripping blood. Except for the river, they are closed in on all sides. As he has on numerous occasions since leaving Woburn, he reminds himself why he’s taken this journey to a foreign country; this wilderness. Land in New England has become expensive—very expensive. His children: he was thinking of their future. The government’s bureaucrats—his father says they’re the inspiration for the word procrastinate—have yet to grant him and his associates final title to the land. But he does have permission to survey the township. In fact, surveying the township is one of the conditions for gaining title to the land. He believes title will come—eventually. When it does, his associates have agreed to cede a good portion of their land. It’s his nature to be in control—and he will be.

While lowering his tall, lean frame down beside Abigail, his eyes are drawn to the spectacle lying across the western horizon: miles of smoky, diaphanous clouds float peacefully atop an expansive curtain ablaze with a fusion of reds and yellows. The only blemish—a streak of black, as if someone has taken charcoal and slashed a line across the setting sun.

He wakes with a start. But he hadn’t heard the rooster; it always announces the coming of the day. Ah, yes, he’d forgotten, the rooster didn’t survive the journey; it died two days ago. It was the sun glaring off something that woke him. He rubs his eyes and rolls out of his blanket, careful not to disturb his parents. Outside, he shivers in the damp air. Oh! Look at that! He never saw that in Woburn: a thick mist hangs casually over the river; it reminds him of his Gramma’s billowy, white comforter.

Now there’s a flurry of activity as everyone wakes, moving in haste, rubbing hands and necks, forgetting for a moment that they do not have to pack for another day’s journey. They’ve arrived. The women stoke the embers of the campfire and begin cooking oatmeal and boiling coffee. The men tread down to the river, splash cold water on their faces. Youngsters scurry about.

Let’s explore! says a lad of six.

Yes, let’s! Jedediah says, and hurries after them into the woods.

The hazy sun in the eastern sky has hardly begun its day’s journey when the forest resonates with the ring and thud of axes; a rhythmic cacophony unintentionally giving rise to hours of rugged counterpoint. The adults, intent upon their tasks, do not notice the approaching party. Jedediah runs out of the forest and comes to an abrupt halt. Two more children come running behind and almost bump into him. Who? Perhaps thirty feet away, a tall, raggedy, bearded white man, clothed in buckskin, holding his long-barrel rifle by his side, is standing in front of some twenty Indians clothed in breechcloths and buckskin leggings. One man at the front is wearing a feathered headdress.

Father! Jedediah cries. Father! The axes halt one after the other. The Indians’ white man comes forward. Wright lays his axe beside the tree and moves to meet him.

What can we do for you? Wright asks. Then, fearing he may have been too abrupt, hastily adds: Welcome to our settlement. The man’s throaty baritone emits a mixture of garbled accents: English, French, and an Indian dialect. But his accent is thick with English when he speaks his name: George Brown. Wright introduces himself, then introduces Daniel Wyman, who has come up alongside him. What can we do for you, Mr. Brown?

Indian friends …, he turns sideways and gestures toward the men who stand quietly several feet behind him. They Algonquin from Lac des Deux-Montagnes. They want know who give you right to take their land, cut down their trees.

"By the authority of the Great Father who lives … their Great Father, Governor Sir Robert Prescott, who lives on the other side of the water at Québec City, and by the authority of Sir John Johnson. Perhaps you know the government’s Indian agent, the man who gives them their annual dues for the land they surrendered to the Crown."

Brown spits a stream of yellow tobacco juice, staining the snow and the bare patches of bronze pine needles. He turns and speaks to the man wearing the headdress. The settlers had encountered a few Indians on their journey, but, from his tone of voice, Wright cannot interpret the intent of the Indian’s reply. Brown turns again to face Wright and a few of the other men who have moved up beside him.

"Ogima Machecawa. He chief. He fear you take beaver, kill deer, otter, bears, their muskrat; steal sucrerie. He say cut down trees, drive animals away. Cannot live without animals."

Tell your chief, we will hunt and fish only to feed ourselves; we will grow food. We will clear the land, but will do our best to protect their animals, and their fishes. Wright pauses. "Tell him we need to make use of their sucrerie; we will pay him a fair price to use their sugar-making tools."

Is there going to be a fight? A few steps and he could be standing beside Mr. Wright and the other men. He steps forward, reaches around and feels his back pocket; his slingshot is at the ready. He looks at the ground, checking for small stones.

Brown speaks to the chief. Machecawa appears to listen carefully to the interpreter, his high cheekbones taut, his eyes unblinking, betraying nothing. When the chief replies, the interpreter’s expression is one of dismay, and he speaks sharply in return, only to have the chief repeat the same words more forcefully. With a shrug of resignation, Brown turns again toward Wright and the others.

I advise not do this, but Ogima Machecawa say you give them thirty dollars, they give up claim to their land.

Thirty dollars! That’s a lot of money! Maybe not so much for land. He really doesn’t know how much land you could buy for thirty dollars. Only four small stones at his feet, the others are too big for his slingshot. He won’t have enough, if there’s a fight.

There’s a shuffling of feet and rumble of voices among the newcomers. Then Wright says: Tell your chief I will show him the papers that give me possession of the land. If he believes the land is his, show us the papers, and I will give him thirty dollars.

The message relayed, and the reply received, the interpreter informs Wright that the Indians have no papers. Ogima say he not know they give up land. He say trinkets government give them not worth giving up land.

What is Mr. Wright going to do? It’s like when his mother told him about Chief Metacom of the Wampanoag. He called himself King Philip, his mother said. She said grandfather fought him. A lot of people got killed. But they won! Mr. Wright’s walking away. He’s going to his sleigh. Maybe he’s going to get his rifle. It’s a standoff. Like the stories he heard at home about the cavalry and the Indians. Here comes Mr. Wright. He doesn’t have his rifle. He has a piece of paper.

This is signed by Sir John Johnson, Wright says. These are his words: The Indians have consented to relinquish all claims to the land in compensation for which they receive annual grants from the government which shall be withheld if they molest the settlers.’ "

Brown repeats the words in the Algonquin tongue. The chief nods. And then Wright says: Tell your chief, when the snow melts, I will go to Montréal and consult with authorities in the Indian Department. Tell him we wish to live peacefully among them. Tell him we will build sawmills and gristmills; they will not have to crush their grain with stones. Brown repeats this information to the tribe, who break into relaxed banter. The chief poses another question for their interpreter.

He want look at your axes, Brown says. Axes, they larger and stronger than their axes. To this, Wright agrees, and gestures for them to come forward. For the next hour, the two groups mingle; the settlers demonstrate the use of their axes and draw knives, the women pour black coffee for their guests. Before departing, Wright gives them tobacco and rum; the Indians, through Brown, promise to return with sugar, venison, and wampumpeag.

There wasn’t a fight. Darn. Better pick up some small stones, in case they come back. Father says you can’t trust an Indian. He didn’t say why. But these Indians aren’t like the ones in Woburn. Maybe this new place will be more exciting than he thought it would be.

From sunup to sundown, the settlement echoes to the monotonous whack of axe and hammer. The work is drudgery. But as trees come down and shanties go up, it’s an exhilarating drudgery paid for with the satisfying ache of muscles and bruised fingers. Their horses and oxen browse among the fallen trees, preferring buds and leaves to the hay and grain the settlers brought with them.

The Wigwam. It looks like a wigwam. At least he’d like to think it does. So that’s what he calls his new home. Someone said Indians live in a wikiwam. He shortens it to wigwam. Easier to say. When he looks carefully, he knows it isn’t anything like an Algonquin wikiwam. Nor does it resemble their New England farmhouse. It’s built from pine logs caulked with moss and plastered with blue clay. He helped his father as best he could. He watched as his father and one of the hired men abutted the centre of one wall against a huge, solid boulder. Above the boulder, they placed the chimney for the hearth. His father partitioned off each end of the shanty to serve as bedrooms; the living room and kitchen occupy the space between them. He wanted to help, so his father let him hammer nails into the wall beside the hearth where his mother has hung her cooking utensils. His father made a square, pine table. It’s heavy, so he helped his father and a hired man lift it and place it beside the fireplace. They didn’t need to make chairs because they’d brought chairs from Woburn. The shanty has no windows: their two panes of glass didn’t survive the journey. His father says, when they get glass, he’ll make windows. Their smelly privy is some forty feet away.

The winter was almost spent when they arrived. Mild weather is enabling them to make considerable progress. They’re pleased to discover that the frost leaves the ground much earlier than in Massachusetts. By late spring, the fertile soil, ploughed by their oxen, is ready for the planting of peas, onions, cabbages, turnips, potatoes, and other crops. When provisions run short, Wright and three of his labourers make the risky and time-consuming journey to Montréal by canoe, portaging around the rapids.

On one of these journeys, Wright has a brief meeting with Sir John Johnson. The Indian agent assures him that the Algonquins have no right to the land: they cannot hinder his lawful possession. He shows Wright a document signed by Chief Mynass of the Mississauga Indians in which the tribe has surrendered the land. Wright was told that the Mississauga are a branch of the Ojibwa who live at Georgian Bay, which is much farther northwest. He wonders what right they had to surrender land occupied by Algonquins. He doesn’t ask.

The next time a few of the Indians visit the settlement, Wright manages to get them to understand he wants to meet with their chief. Two days later, Machecawa arrives with a small delegation, and the interpreter. The settlers gather round: the result of this powah could determine their future relations with the former owners of the land.

Machecawa is a commanding presence. From his full, feathered headdress to his beaded moccasins, his muscular frame is wrapped in a cloak of moose skin stained with a motley array of colours. Wright tells him their Great Father and Sir John Johnson want him to treat the settlers as rightful owners of the land.

You are to treat us as your brothers, Wright says. And I will use you in as friendly a manner as circumstances allow.

When Brown relays this message, the Indians hold a long powah, and then Chief Machecawa says he does not dispute the white chief ’s word, but he did not know they had given up the right to their land.

"Chief Machecawa say better bon ami than ennemi, Brown says. He wish you become brother chief. He say you be brother chief, sit with him in council, settle dispute."

When Wright nods agreement, Machecawa’s long strides take him quickly up to the settler. Not knowing what is going to happen, Wright holds his ground. The chief places a hand on each of Wright’s shoulders, and kisses him on the forehead. He takes a step back, and lays his moose skin cloak on the ground, which reveals a large pouch hanging from the belt of his breechcloth. From the pouch he takes a small wooden carving, the likeness of a man covered in down and cloth that has been dyed red and blue. Next, he removes a cap from which hangs the claws of a beaver and several eagle feathers. He then withdraws two sticks carved with wishbones at one end. He thrusts them into the ground a few inches apart. The last two items are a small pouch of tobacco and a long-stemmed pipe, which he places in the crutches of the two sticks. Machecawa sits down in front of the pipe, and motions for Wright to sit opposite him.

As in a well rehearsed ceremony, the remainder of the tribe come forward and gather in a circle around the two principal participants. One man fills the bowl of the pipe with the tobacco, lights it and hands it to his chief, who stands up. In turn, Machecawa faces the four horizons, each time inhaling and blowing smoke upwards, as if in homage to the Great Spirit. He then grips the middle of the pipe’s stem with both hands, raises it above his head and, facing the rising sun in the east, swings it around three times before gently cradling it in the wishbones of the two sticks. A short speech follows, which Brown interprets: "Ogima Machecawa, he say grateful to Great Spirit for past blessings. He ask Great Spirit bless powah with white man. He give white man title of Wabisca Onodis. Mean White Chief ’.

Joyful whoops from members of the tribe reverberate off the rocks and trees.

Thinking the ceremony complete, Wright is about to stand up when Machecawa sits down facing him. The chief removes the pipe from its holder, takes three puffs and utters a few prayerful words. He hands the pipe to the new White Chief who does the same. When he hands the pipe back to Machecawa, the chief stands and takes it around to all the men, white and red. Brown explains that all who inhale the smoke of peace are saying they are ami, and hold no grudge. When the pipe is smoked out, Machecawa again twirls it three times around his head before placing it on the holder. He utters a phrase in Algonquin that Brown interprets as come, eat.

As they move through the dense forest, a tenacious crust of remaining sleet crunches under their feet. Machecawa leads his tribe and the male settlers along a narrow, winding path. The ceremony over, the women return to their tasks, the children return to their games.

All but one.

That was exciting! That ceremony. He never saw anything like that in Woburn! Where are they going? Better not get too close. He tries to be quiet. Doesn’t want them to hear him. But his every step makes a chomping sound in the crusty snow. Can’t help it. His father would be angry. Can’t get too far behind. Doesn’t want to lose them. If he does, he can follow his steps back to the camp. Careful. They’ve stopped. It’s a clearing. Must be their camp. Better hide behind a tree. He can see them pretty well from behind the tree. Everyone’s gathering in a circle around the fire.

As soon as everyone is seated, the tribe’s epits, led by Machecawa’s wife, Newitchewagan, emerge from the surrounding huts and break into song. With the fading of the last shrill notes, a young lkwe withdraws a score of burnt partridge from the fire. She removes the charred feathers from the birds and places them in front of Machecawa. He immediately selects a plump one and throws it back into the fire: a sacrifice to their Great Spirit.

The epits serve bear steaks that had been sizzling over the fire. Their rich aroma reaches his nostrils. Will the rumble in his stomach reveal his presence?

While the others are eating, Machecawa chants and accompanies himself by banging on a shisiquoi.

At the end of the meal, through Brown, Machecawa addresses Wright. The still night air carries their voices into the woods.

White brother wear war paint. Put awe and fear in enemy. Will white face let Newitchewagan put paint on face?

No! No! No! Soot and grease and ochre are for Indians, not white men! Wright says, making no attempt to hide his dismay at the suggestion.

"Ogima say custom new chief choose a Manitu. Spirit protect from danger and help in battle."

"Tell your chief white man’s Manitu is Great Spirit we call Our Father. He saves and keeps and protects us night and day."

Will new chief let Newitchewagan paint white chief ’s Great Spirit on his body?

Great Spirit engraved on my body when he created me in His likeness.

Brown relays this message. When Machecawa nods, four of the Indians rise from the circle and enter one of the huts from which they drag a small, white dog. With leather thongs, they suspend the writhing animal from a pole about five feet high. A shiver flashes through Jedediah’s body. The dog secured, Chief Machecawa rises and, looking heavenward, begins chanting.

Brown interprets: "Great Spirit Father, you who are new chief ’s Manitu, we, his brothers, beg you accept this living sacrifice." Machecawa’s nod signals the tribe to rise from the circle. Yelps and whoops pierce the brittle, cold, night air. The Indians rush to the pole, knives drawn. Some settlers look away. Others find their eyes drawn to the spectacle. Eclipsed by the yells of the celebrants, no one hears the footsteps of a young boy running away.

In the months that follow, the parties resolve disagreements by assembling at either the new settlement or the Indians’ village. Friendship and goodwill prevail. Neither party ever feels the need to revert to the law. On one occasion, having just returned from a powah at the Indians’ village, Wright says to Abigail: I have never been acquainted with a people who regard justice and equity more strictly than they do.

They continue to clear the land, burn their fallows, and by early fall several acres of the wilderness fronting the river begin to resemble a rough but ordered community. It’s time to harvest the vegetables and wheat they planted in the spring and summer. Much to his chagrin and embarrassment, Wright discovers that he planted his potatoes too deep: the whole of them, nearly 1,000 bushels, have rotted in the ground. This misfortune, for which he takes a good-natured ribbing, is mitigated by the condition of the other vegetables: they are of better quality than those grown in Massachusetts, and without the use of manure. In Woburn, they had to travel to Boston where they purchased manure at $3.00 per load.

This is the finest wheat I have ever harvested, Wright says to four of his workers gathered in the field.

No one seems to know who first used the names, but the settlement is being called Wrightsville, and its leader is being addressed as Squire Wright, a title that meets his approval. Word of the new settlement spreads to Upper Canada and the United States. More families, many from the New England states, join the original settlers. Wright pays a surveyor to survey the township’s 82,000 acres.

Moving back from the river, depending upon the fertility of the soil, he divides the land into concessions of 200 acres each, and marks off individual lots. He’s following through on his goal to build a community of independent farmers by leasing land on generous terms: new arrivals agree to pay him when their farms become prosperous.

The squire holds weekly meetings to help newcomers integrate, and to discuss what more they can do to improve the village.

I was doubtful, Philemon, says James McConnell, but the soil on my cleared acreage is quite rich. He and his younger brother, William, arrived recently from Nova Scotia, another British colony.

Wright nods acknowledgement of McConnell’s comment.

We need a sawmill and a gristmill, says Ephraim Chamberlin.

We’ll build them next summer, Wright says. At the falls. Since nature has given us that cataract, we’ll make use of it. We’ll drive them with waterwheels.

Chamberlin nods, as do the others: they know mills are driven with waterwheels, but they’re used to hearing Wright explain everything in detail.

More families arrive, and the following summer they erect a gristmill, which means they need a large barn for storing wheat. They build one, and again take advantage of the power of the falls by building a blacksmith shop with four water-driven forges, and a tannery with a water-powered bark grinder. A general store, a foundry, and shops for tailors, bakers, and shoemakers follow. On acreage that has borne two crops of corn, they sow grass to have timothy and clover-hay for wintering their cattle.

Next will come roads and bridges.

Except for a few artisans, the settlers spend their days working the land. With the setting sun, they drag tired, aching bodies across ploughed fields to their cabins. The week’s labour is unburdened at a Saturday soirée: gathering with neighbours deepens their community spirit, and gives them the resilience to take on the challenges of the week ahead.

It’s difficult to find time to school the youngsters, but with the few textbooks she brought with her, Abigail Wright, who had received an elementary education in Woburn, is holding classes for an hour every morning, with Sundays devoted to a passage from the Bible.

After ’rithmitic, as Jedediah calls it, he goes about his regular chores, as do all the children capable of helping in any way. Then, while his parents toil at turning their acreage into a self-sufficient farm, he and the other children spend much of the day exploring, or playing tag, hide-and-seek, and homemade games of jack-stones, and hoops.

Besides chumming with Nathan Moore, who’s his age, he’s become friends with Philemon’s sons, Tiberius, two years older, and Ruggles, three years younger.

But boredom comes easily to a twelve-year-old.

Let’s go across! As they have on numerous occasions during the past two years, he and Nathan have wandered down to the rocky shore beside the falls. It’s not the first time one of them has expressed the desire—this time it’s Nathan—but it is the first time they have the means to carry it out. The settlers often leave their canoes pulled up on the rocks, but take the paddles with them. Today, someone has left a canoe with the paddles in it.

We’d better get permission, Jedediah says. Or our fathers will be angry.

No they won’t! Nathan says.

Jedediah gazes over at the other shore. It’s one of those halcyon days when nature has managed a perfect balance between summer and fall: a day when the water beckons.

Last summer, their fathers went across in a canoe. His father said there are a few squatters camped in wickiups behind the high cliff, but the rest is just rocks and trees and swamp. You couldn’t build anything on it, he said.

C’mon! You like to explore! Nathan says. It’ll be an adventure!

All right … but if father finds out … Jedediah turns and looks up toward the top of the hill. One of the labourers is coming out of the gristmill carrying a sack. The seemingly never-ending whine emanating from the sawmill hardly registers. Maybe we should ask if it’s—

Naw, they’re busy. C’mon!

Still reluctant, Jedediah hesitates before following Nathan over to the canoe. They each take hold of an end, carry the canoe down to the shoreline, and place it in the water. Jedediah gets in the bow, Nathan shoves off and steps into the stern. Their fathers have taken them out on the water several times; they know how to paddle.

Let’s get off on an island, Nathan says. Lying between the shores are a few small islands, mostly rock with patches of earth sprouting desolatelooking shrubbery.

Yeah, lets! Jedediah says. Enthusiasm for the adventure has chased away his doubt. About halfway across, Nathan steers toward one of the larger islands. They bring the canoe in sideways. Careful, Jedediah says. It’s pretty rocky! They step out and pull the canoe up onto the rocks, high enough that it won’t float away.

Let’s explore, Nathan says, and begins making his way around the bushes.

Watch out for snakes! Jedediah says, touching the slingshot in his back pocket.

They trek around the island’s perimeter. It doesn’t take them long to reach the side facing the south shore. They spend a few minutes staring across.

Not much to see, is there? Nathan says.

Naw, not much, Jedediah says.

I bet there’ll be something to see when we get to the other side, Nathan says. He turns and begins walking back. But not around the perimeter. Instead, he’s walking across the island to where he thinks they left the canoe.

I have to pee, Jedediah says. I won’t be long.

While Jedediah is relieving himself, a small, black snake slithers by in front of him. He aims his stream at the snake, but it’s already wriggled into the underbrush. He buttons up his denim trousers, and picks up a stone. He reaches back and touches his slingshot, but it’s of no use this close. He takes one step forward, but the snake is either well camouflaged, or long gone.

After a few minutes, he gives up, and walks in the direction Nathan took back to the canoe.

When he arrives at the shore, the canoe isn’t there, and neither is his friend.

He can see all around the river, except in a couple of places where the shrubs have defied the rocky terrain and sprouted as high as … well, as high as a twelve-year-old.

Nathan! No reply. He must be in the wrong place. He begins making his way around the perimeter. Stops. Retraces his few steps and takes out his pocket knife. It says Sheffield on the handle. His father says it’s a city in England, where they make them. He opens it and cuts off the top of a shrub. It’ll mark the spot where he started from, and he’ll be sure he went all the way around.

The search takes only a few minutes. Still no sign of Nathan. Nor the canoe.

Nathan! His shout echoes and fades off the water. Where are you?

Has his friend drowned? Did an Indian capture him? And scalp him? Someone said Indians do that. Someone else said it’s not true. A long way down the river he can see two men rowing a batteau across to the north shore. He tries to shout help, but his voice catches in his throat, and he’s finding it difficult to breathe. And, anyway, they’re probably too far away to hear him. His heart is racing. He gasps for breath. His legs feel weak. He has the shakes. He sits down beside the shrub. His chest, heaving; his face, dripping sweat; his cotton shirt, denim pants, and wool socks, soaked.

The island begins to spin.

Jedediah!

He blinks. He must have passed out. His eyes open. A hazy face hovers over him. It comes into focus.

Nathan! Where were—?

I got tired waiting! What were you doing? It doesn’t take that long to pee!

"There was a snake … I went all around … I couldn’t see … Where were you?"

I got tired waiting; I went to the other side.

But I walked all around the island! I didn’t see you!

I must have been in the cove.

The cove?

Yeah, there’s a cove behind a small island, and there’s some flat land; it was easy to pull the canoe up. Get up! Can you?

Nathan helps him to his feet. He feels clammy and sticky with sweat. Otherwise, he feels fine.

I thought you’d drowned. Or an Indian got you and scalped you!

Naw, I just got tired waiting. C’mon.

He follows Nathan to the canoe.

You shouldn’t have left me!

You shouldn’t have taken so long to pee!

They get in the canoe and shove off. Nathan steers toward the north shore. He’s not going to see the south side. At least, not today. He doesn’t care.

2

Who was it said time flies? The rhetorical question is from John Allen on a spring morning at the beginning of a meeting in Wright’s home. Apparently no one knows: shrugs and bemused expressions are the only response.

But time has flown.

In the six years since their arrival, the community has made significant progress toward self-sufficiency, which has reduced the number of trips to Montréal to purchase supplies.

On one of those trips, during a stopover in Lachine, Wright met a lieutenant from Great Britain’s Corps of Royal Engineers. John By, stationed in Ville de Québec, had just finished overseeing reconstruction of crude canals in the Soulanges section of the St. Lawrence River. The work so impressed his Commanding Royal Engineer (CRE) he put him in charge of building a more elaborate canal at the Cascades. Both men, with pressing matters to attend to, had only a brief conversation. Part of that conversation dealt with Britain’s shortage of oak for building ships. The British navy had been purchasing timber harvested from the Baltic forests. But because it’s at war with Napoleon Bonaparte’s France, Britain attempted to gain advantage by preventing merchant ships of neutral nations from entering continental ports. Six years ago, the blockade raised the ire of Russia, Sweden, Prussia, and Denmark, who retaliated by forming a League of Armed Neutrality. Under its terms, the Baltic ports were declared out of bounds to British ships. Although a few shipments of timber have been imported from New Brunswick and Québec, despite the greater expense, the British government appears to have little choice but to expand its timber trade with its other colonies.

Now, months later, while reviewing his financial situation, Wright remembers his conversation with Second Lieutenant By. Although he and his associates have established a successful farming community on some 26,000 acres along the Ottawa River, the squire’s expenditures are still greater than his income. News reaches him that Westminster has removed all tariff duties on wood imported from its colonies. The British Navy is in dire need of lumber: Wrightsville has an unlimited supply.

It’s his birthday. Sixteen! Standing beside his father, he’s almost at eye level. He shouldn’t have to go to Mrs. Wright’s class today; not on his birthday. But he wants to go. Abbie will be there. Book learning. His mother says it’s important. His father doesn’t say anything. Maybe because he doesn’t have any book learning. Guess he’d better go. Chief Machecawa will probably be there. His rival. How did that happen? Oh yes, Newitchewagan.

A few months previous, on a blustery, winter’s afternoon, Machecawa showed up at the Wright’s door towing his wife, Newitchewagan, on a tabaganne. The robust lkwe had come down with a chill. With no interpreter present, Machecawa explained with gestures that the tribe’s shaman had administered a vapour bath that failed to restore her health. While gazing at her frail and sickly countenance, the woebegone mist in Machecawa’s eyes told Mrs. Wright he was pleading for her assistance. She placed a hand on Newitchewagan’s forehead: the lkwe was burning with fever. Mrs. Wright did not have to consult the medical textbook she had brought from Woburn. She directed Machecawa to fill a bucket with snow. She soaked a cloth in the snow, and applied it to the lkwe’s forehead. She told Abbie to make a pot of tea. Throughout the night, the Wrights and Machecawa held a vigil. Except for the muttering of prayers, the only sound in the cabin was the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Sips of tea and the continuous application of cold compresses appeared to revive Newitchewagan. But just before dawn, she opened her dark eyes, gazed a moment at her wasukeh, sighed, and her spirit departed.

At the Algonquin camp, Newitchewagan’s body was wrapped in birch bark and tied with cords of deerskin. For the burial ceremony, it was placed on a platform of pine boughs. Machecawa blackened his face, as did several lkwes, who wailed their grief. An elder chanted prayers throughout the day. She was buried just before sundown in the nearby pine grove. When the cortège departed, Machecawa, his blanket covering his head, crouched beside the grave. For three days and three nights, he sat silent and motionless, mourning the loss of his weéwo.

Since his loss, Machecawa has taken to visiting the Wrights almost everyday. He sits quietly watching Mrs. Wright working at her hand-loom and spinning wheel, or instructing the children in their lessons, especially the girls in their domestic duties. Having picked up a few words of English, he tells the man he named White Chief that he wants to learn what is in the white man’s books. Chrissy Wright, overhearing this request, asks if she can teach him. Philemon agrees. The chief is an avid pupil. But in only a few weeks it becomes apparent that learning white man’s ways is not Machecawa’s only interest: his eyes are forever on Abbie. Machecawa has always spoken his mind to the man he made a brother chief. One morning, as soon as Chrissy had finished teaching him the day’s lesson, he approached Wright.

"Me love nunksqua. You give to Machecawa. Make weéwo."

You want me to give you Abbie for your wife! Wright said, the astonished look on his face matching the astonishment in his voice. No, Machecawa! Never! A white girl could never be happy as a squaw. Seeing the hurt in the chief ’s eyes, he added: She is too young. She may answer for herself … when she is old enough.

The chief gazed at Abbie, who told him she was honoured to be chosen, but that her father was right, she was too young. He would have to wait several years. Machecawa said nothing, but both Abbie and her mother noticed the spark of hope in his eyes.

That day keeps looping through Jedediah’s head.

His heart was pounding. The others must have been able to hear it. If not, they must have seen the drops of sweat on his forehead. He had wiped them off with his shirt sleeve, only to have them reappear. No reason for that. The air, chilly that morning, the fire in the hearth had chased the chill away, and then Mr. Wright had put out the fire. No reason to sweat on such a sweet and balmy day. The day’s lessons completed, he left the cabin and walked quickly down the path to Chaudière Falls. A sweet and balmy day. He sat on his favourite rock. The water, as always, churning violently in the kettle at the bottom of the falls, as if trying to push the rocks aside. He couldn’t look away. Was it tempting him to jump? The roar, like rolling thunder; the tumbling water; the thoughts tumbling through his head. These feelings for a girl …

Wednesday, June 11, 1806

Now isn’t that a sight, Harvey?

Philemon Wright and Harvey Parker are standing at the mouth of the Gatineau River where it flows south into the Ottawa. Ripples lap gently upon the shore as they gaze over the breadth of the water.

That it is, Philemon. Even though they’ve been here on numerous occasions, the panorama before them still rouses feelings of awe and satisfaction.

The river is blanketed with twenty cribs of squared timber. Each crib is secured with a framework of pegged timbers driven into the holes they bored with their augers. Bound tightly together with green withes of hardwood saplings, the cribs form a large raft. From a distance, the assembly could easily be mistaken for a solid, wooden platform piled with several hundred oak staves of varying lengths. The staves will be used to construct casks and barrels. On a crib in the middle of the raft stands the cook’s cambuse. Although they are not the usual accommodations on a raft, close by are six small cabins: five will serve as their sleeping quarters, one as storage for their provisions.

No matter how often I—

Yes, I feel the same, Parker says. Wright knows his associate has something else on his mind. At the risk of raising your ire, I’ll remind you that Brown and Machecawa … and others … they say this trip can’t be done. Before Wright can reply, Parker reminds him that he has to be in Ville de Québec by the end of July or he’ll lose his contract for the staves. Then he adds: You still haven’t explained how you’ll get over the rapids.

I don’t know how we’ll get over, Wright says. But we’ll get over, even if we have to take every crib apart and send the logs over the rapids one at a time.

The previous fall, Wright travelled by coach to Ville de Québec, to the timber coves on the St. Lawrence River at the foot of Cap Diamant, the name explorer Jacques Cartier gave the promontory on which the city is located. There, he negotiated a contract with a timber merchant to deliver a raft with staves.

The neighing of horses draws their attention to a wagon coming through the clearing. It contains two men, John Allen and Daniel Wyman, and two boys, Jedediah Jansen and Tiberius Wright, whose friends call him Tib. They jump off the wagon and begin unloading axes, picks, long oars, pike poles, and bundles of food and clothing.

I wish you luck, Philemon, I believe you’ll need it, Parker says.

Wright tells him to look at the level of the water. He reminds him of what he said in the winter about going too early: that in the spring, the river is swollen and rushing. It’s lower now, but if they wait until July, it may be too low. And, yes, we’ll need luck, Wright says. They walk up the embankment to where their horses are being hitched to the back of the buckboard. They exchange good wishes and shake hands with Parker, who takes the reins and turns the horse around for the trip back to the village.

Last winter, they felled more than 700 trees, their draw knives stripping off the bark; broadaxes squaring the logs; oxen dragging them over snow and ice to the edge of the frozen river. With itchy patience, and considerable apprehension, they waited for the spring thaw. These men were neophytes when it came to constructing a raft; their knowledge limited to conversations with loggers on the St. Lawrence during trips to Montréal. False starts were to be expected, but once the first crib was on the river, the remaining nineteen were not that difficult to assemble. They were proud of their achievement, as witnessed by smug grins hidden below scruffy beards.

We have good weather, Philemon, Daniel Wyman says.

I hope that’s a good omen, Daniel. Let’s get underway.

He’s on the south side of the raft with Mr. Allen. Mr. Wyman and Tib are on the north side. Mr. Wright is at the front watching for rocks. Pay attention. He has to pull his weight. Concentrate on rowing. But the image of Abbie; the way her nose turns up when she smiles; her long, curly hair, flaxen, like that of her father; the barely noticeable swell at the front of her bodice: that image keeps intruding. Listen! It’s the current gurgling under the logs. He knows luck is with them. He rows as best he can with the long, unwieldy oar. A moderate wind from the west is farther incentive. The cheers of settlers gathered along the banks buoy his spirits. But does Abbie—

Jedediah! It’s Mr. Allen. Row! We’re too close to the shore!

Tib and Mr. Wyman have stopped rowing. He and Mr. Allen pull on the oars, moving the raft closer to the middle of the river. Oops! Flat on his back. How’d that happen? He’s been on the river lots of times. But in a canoe. He’s not used to the roll of the raft. He’ll have to get his sea legs, someone said. Concentrate. Mr. Wright has chosen him for the journey. But why? There are other lads, older lads, just as strong. Stronger. Does he know how he feels about Abbie? And wants him away from her? Now is not the time … Pay attention. It’s going to be a long day.

Near dusk, they secure the oars to the crib and settle down by the hearth. John Allen has been designated cook. He hands out slabs of fried salt pork and brown bread. Little is said. They dwell silently on the satisfaction of having made it through their first day without a serious mishap. They rub liniment on aching muscles, and retire early: four of them falling quickly into a deep slumber.

Alone in his cabin, free at last of the day’s labour, he goes over, once again, what happened yesterday.

Was she rejecting him? He’ll be gone for several weeks. Possibly months. Following the morning’s lesson with Mrs. Wright, he asked her to walk with him down to the falls. She said she had chores. Which was true. He had chores as well. Maybe she wasn’t rejecting him. She did have chores. So did he. And she said, another time. He’d almost forgotten, but, yes, she had said, another time. And what about Machecawa? Now and then she returned his constant gaze. But she was just being polite. Wasn’t she? Better get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another tiring day. He’s not there: there’s nothing he can do about Machecawa. He goes out onto the raft to relieve himself. His stream of urine ripples the calm water. Is the raft shifting at all? Hard to tell, the water’s so still; the air, also still; the stars so clear and close in the coal-black sky, it seems he could reach up and touch them. Back in his cabin, fatigue finally claims him.

Down the Ottawa they go, gaining confidence each day as they become more proficient at rowing with the long oars.

When Daniel Wyman shouts smooth sailing! across the raft, John Allen replies, It’s a long voyage, Dan!

Minutes later, they are no longer smooth sailing.

We’ve hit a shoal, Father! Tiberius shouts.

Philemon is standing at the front of the raft and is already aware of the sudden stop. They move to the side of the crib and peer into the shallow water. The squire allows a soft expletive to escape under his breath. They push with the long oars. Did they feel the crib shift slightly? Or is it just wishful thinking? They rest, and try again. And again. Eventually, they acknowledge what they were unwilling to at the beginning: they’re grounded.

It’s no use, Philemon, John Allen says. We need t’ wait for the river t’ rise.

Or take it apart and put it back together, Wright says. But it’s now approaching sunset, and they’re exhausted. We’ll camp for the night.

Except for a brief shower on the third day, the weather has remained constant; the early summer sun providing warmth, the nights chilly. While John Allen prepares the evening meal, the others shed days of sweat by stripping down and plunging into the water; Jedediah and Tiberius swim the short distance to the far shore and back.

Appetites well whetted, they don’t wait for the cook to finish frying the pork: they cut and devour large slabs of brown bread. Conversation is sparse: men and boys are thinking the same thing: the rapids lie ahead.

As soon as it’s daylight, we have to get off this shoal, Philemon says. The others nod. Appetites satiated, they retire early.

Although his body aches for a good night’s rest, when Philemon lies down, he stares at the low, pine ceiling; his mind racing. He should be proud of what he’s accomplished. And he is! Nagging doubts. Not the first time he’s had those. His father uprooted his family, left England, moved to Salem, then Woburn, to give them a better life. The inspiration for a better life came from his father. Of course, there’s the contradiction, the irony: joining the revolutionary army to fight for independence from the British, and then moving here and taking an oath to be loyal to them. But he was only fifteen when he joined the rebels; a mere lad. It was the romance of being a rebel; that’s what he liked. And here he is, a rebel again. Only this time he’s fighting the land, the river. But he likes a challenge, loves a challenge, and there have been no shortage of challenges since he and the others arrived. Stuck on a shoal. It was to be expected. They’ll conquer this challenge, as they have the others. And those to come. Moving from Woburn had been the right decision. More land. Much better land. Better for farming. More fertile. At least along the river. But go back two miles: rocks. And the wheat they took to market in Montréal: no profit; they didn’t even meet expenses. And now, here he is, stuck on a shoal on the Ottawa River. What has he gotten himself into? He could have stayed in Woburn. No! The government’s bureaucrats have finally awarded them the deeds to their land. They’ve been given 12,000 acres, and his associates, as agreed, have signed over the land owed to him. He controls most of the land: virtually all of it fronting the river. No, he made the right decision. They’ll get off the shoal. They’ll get their timber to Ville de Québec, to his merchant’s cove at Cap Diamant.

They gather around the hearth just as the sun begins peeking over the eastern horizon. There’s no banter as they munch on bacon and grilled bread, washing down breakfast with black coffee, well sugared. The crib does not appear to have moved during the night. They know what lies ahead. It’s not that they’re shying away from a challenge, but if there’s an easier way …

I don’t want to lose the day trying to push off, Philemon says.

It would take most of the day to take it apart and put it back together. It’s Tiberius who voices the thoughts of the others. His father nods, and agrees to sacrifice a half-hour. The task is the same as on the previous day. And it’s simple: push as hard as they can with the long oars. There’s no leverage, nothing mechanical to facilitate their effort. The half-hour goes by: the crib holds tenaciously to the shoal. Expletives are uttered, softly. The sun, creeping across the eastern sky, has begun to dissolve the thick, morning dew. Sweat trickles down foreheads and, for Allen and Wyman, into scruffy beards.

They rest.

We’re wasting time, Philemon says. We’ll have to take it apart.

No one objects: there’s nothing else to be done. They move to the corners of the crib and are about to remove the pegs when they hear a shout.

You’re stuck! Standing on the shore are nine men: settlers who have been given farmland along the river.

Ya figured that out, did ya? Daniel Wyman shouts back.

Yes, we’re stuck, my friend, Philemon says, hoping they haven’t been offended by Wyman’s sarcasm. Can you help us?

The farmers pick up long, thick branches, and wade through the shallow water to the raft. Four of the men lay down the branches in favour of the long oars. They line up along the crib, fourteen strong. At the squire’s command, they push the pike poles and oars and branches into the visible part of the shoal: the crib does not move. One of the farmers says that with all of them standing on the side that’s grounded, their weight is pushing it farther down into the sandbank. He suggests seven of them bounce up and down on the side of the raft still buoyant, while the others push. One farmer slips and falls in. He laughs about the mishap while his friends pull him out. They bounce on one side, push on the other.

Twenty minutes later, they give up.

Thank you for your effort, gentlemen, Philemon says, but we’ll have to dismantle it.

They remove the corner pegs, slide the logs off the shoal and dump them into the water on the other side. The loose logs sail on down the river. They thank the men for their help, and continue their journey. Near dusk, they catch up to the logs, capture them with their pike poles, and reassemble the crib.

Exhausted from the day’s toil, Jedediah sits in his cabin and tries to concentrate on reading. Mrs. Wright insisted he take issues of The Fly with him. The relentless ache in his shoulders and arms makes it hard to concentrate. But he’s proud that he’s holding up his end of the rowing. Another time. He dwells on those two words: another time. Another time to stroll down the path that leads to Chaudière Falls. Was that a promise? Or just a way of putting him off? And what about the other lads in the village? Chief Machecawa … forget about him! What about Nathan, his friend? He’s seen them together milking the cows. But that doesn’t mean anything. All the young ones, even the little ones, have to milk the cows. But they always seem to be in the barn at the same time. Nothing